


Oranges

by aknowngay



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), swan queen - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Medium Burn, a light gay lunch time read, brought to you by a known gay, like 180 degrees, like a quick slow burn?, noir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2018-09-28 04:17:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10071140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aknowngay/pseuds/aknowngay
Summary: "People are all oranges, really. On the outside, they’re just a big kinda waxy blob of mono-colour. Then when you peel off their skin (…not, y’know, literally) they are filled with these beautiful complexities you never expected. Like oranges, they have all the segments and pips and that weird white stuff that you need to peel off before you eat it ‘cause it’s kinda gross…  Yeah, I’m not great with metaphors but you get what I mean, right? People; they’re more interesting than they seem sometimes. And when knowing how to peel people is what you do for a living... you know a lot about oranges…Eh, just ignore that. Sorry. Metaphors. Not my thing."OREmma Swan, local Private Investigator of SWAN & JONES, is hired by writer and activist Regina Mills to find out just why her ten year old son keeps going AWOL. Written in a modern day feminist Raymond Chandler style, except in first person.





	1. CHAPTER I

People are all oranges, really. On the outside, they’re just a big kinda waxy blob of mono-colour. Then when you peel off their skin (…not, _y’know_ , literally) they are filled with these beautiful complexities you never expected. Like oranges, they have all the segments and pips and that weird white stuff that you need to peel off before you eat it ‘cause it’s kinda gross…

 

Yeah, I’m not great with metaphors but you get what I mean, _right_? People; they’re more interesting than they seem sometimes. And when knowing how to peel people is what you do for a living, you know a lot about oranges…

 

Eh, just ignore that. Sorry. Metaphors. _Not_ my thing.

 

I pick out the first segment of orange with my fingers, knowing I will have orange scented hands for the next eighteen hours. I don’t know what it is about oranges that make your hands stinks so much but that’s the risk you run with the dumb pulpous beasts. Biting into the segment, the lukewarm juices bursts in my mouth, providing a pleasant citrusy highlight to my $1.50 coffee. It’s when I’m chewing into the second bit I realise there’s a damn pip in it. I have to fish around my mouth with my tongue for a bit till I spit it out in a napkin.

 

Next to me, I see my newest client, Ms Regina Mills, grimace disapprovingly. I shoot her a glare, the sort of glare that says ‘ _hey, at least I spat in a napkin and not your shoes, alright?_ ’. I’m just trying to enjoy my lunch, I don’t need her fancy espresso and quinoa salad judging my plain cheese and black coffee. Or my orange. Let’s just say, so far I get the impression if Regina Mills were a fruit, she’d likely be a lemon. Or maybe a lime, they’re all weird and green and stuff. Still with segments and a deeper meaning or whatever but mostly all weird and green and stuff.

 

“If you’re quite finished disembowelling your lunch, _Ms Swan_ , maybe we could discuss the details of the case?”

 

I sigh, returning my orange to the plastic lunch box my room mate made me buy (using paper bags in unethically, apparently). Anyway, it’s not a **_case_**. When your kid runs off on a daily basis and the police - for some reason(!) - refuse to keep tabs on him, it’s really not a **_case_**.

 

In layman’s terms, what Ms Mills is hiring me to do, is _stalk_ her ten year old son.

 

I try my best to express my distaste of her classification of the **_case_** in an obnoxiously raised eyebrow. I’ve been told I’m a woman of few words, and I’d like to keep it that way. Expecting some sassy remark, I lock my eyes onto hers but Ms Mills just stares back at me with this dead eyed expression. Quickly, I find myself breaking the stare… I hate losing, but I’m a little scared she’ll suck out my soul or something.

 

“Uh, _yeah_. I guess I could take your _case_ ”, I reply.

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” she retorts, stabbing a leaf of lettuce.

“Uh, and hiring me to follow your son is probably the lowest form of parenting.”

 

Ms Mills sighs audibly with irritation. She takes a few seconds before replying:

“I care for my son, Miss Swan. I will do anything for him to succeed in life. It is not your place to discuss my methods.”

 

I don’t know what the woman does for a living but it must be fancy. Parents paying for their kid’s good fortune is nothing new but this takes the biscuit. Here we are, meeting on a damn park bench for a quasi lunch meeting and she’s dressed in some fancy-ass lawyer suit with cuff links and all. Her hair is black as ravens, cropped to her chin. Nails filed but unpolished. Basically, I'll bet her colleagues - if she has any - would pin her as practical, orderly and dull as a mud coated hubcap.

I squint at her in marvel. The sun’s just reemerged from behind a cloud so my full expression isn’t really delivered with it’s full effect. Pissy clients are generally the category I try to avoid when taking on _cases_. Clearly bored of pretending to eat her salad while I consider, Ms Mills clears her throat.

 

“Look,” I begin, scratching the back of my head. Saying no to people like Ms Mills was like admitting to your teacher it was you that smashed the third floor window, “I’ve got other stuff on right now that’s probably going to take priority of a little kid with a flight risk.”

I can see Ms Mills grip on her fork tighten slighting and I start to get a couple palpitations.

 

“I assure you, Miss Swan, I can pay you handsomely for you efforts. Much more than all the stuff you are currently occupying your time with.”

Hand unclenched, she replaces her fork in it’s clicky-in holder in her lunch box - it’s much fancier than mine.

“As much as I hate to admit it,” she continues, “despite your unfortunate dress and tone, I have it on good authority you are the best in your field for what..ever it is you do. Hunting down criminal elements, I assume, is a reasonably reputable career path. I, _however_ , would simply like to know where my son goes from the hours of three to five o’clock, Monday to Friday and for him to stop tracking muddy foot prints on my cream carpet. You should easily be able to take two hours away from your stuff to do so.”

 

_God, this is like breaking up with someone._

 

Stuffing my lunch box into my rucksack, (as a bag, they are a lot more practical while running) I rise to my feet, hoping the height difference will somehow give me more credibility.

 

“I’m sorry, Ms Mills. It’s just not my area. Maybe get a baby sitter or something?” I shrug, throwing my rucksack over my shoulder.

It appears I’ve hit a nerve as a split second later I’m eye to eye with lil Ms Business. Well more eye to chin as I have a slight height advantage but that doesn’t seems to make her any less threatening. Close up, there’s more to see about Ms Mills. The small white small scar running over her top lip. Soulless pools of darkness replaced with swirls of deep mocha brown. She’s actually quite attractive if I pretend I’m not terrified of her. Not that I show it. Total professional me.

 

“Miss Swan, you maybe my last resort. I am not a woman to beg or to grovel but God knows I love my son and I wish I knew how to show it better. I would turn the tides for him if he ask me. Yet, I feel there is obviously something I cannot provide that he feels the need to run away and since he won’t tell me what it is, I cannot help him.” She pauses, realising her vulnerability and reasserts herself. “You have parents? You know all relationships are not as perfect as they seem.”

 

Her words cause me discomfort, but I refuse to let it show. Instead, I study her face for traces of truthfulness.

 

The nature of my clientele varies frequently but they do all have on thing in common: sincerity.

Of which I am a master of detecting.

I watch as her brows furrow and her top lip twitch slightly. Her hands hang held in loose fist by her sides.

All those little mannerism hidden so carefully reveal the irritation my nonconformity is causing; the worry her son fills her with and how uncomfortable it makes her putting her trust in the hands of a stranger.

 

It’s the orange beneath the peel.

 

The crappy white stuff but it’s enough to know I can trust her intentions are as correct as they can be.


	2. CHAPTER II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma considers her answer to Regina, feat. Killian being an asshole and Ruby being gay.

 

  
  


CHAPTER II

 

It's strange how you grow up to be something you're not. We're all two people, really; the _reality_ and the _vision_. The downfall from here is everyone just spends so much time dreaming their fantasy life that, by the time they are ready to achieve it, they have already evolved into their destiny. Very few know what they want and fewer have the tools and determination to reach it.

Unless there is nothing: no motivation; no vision; no dream. Unless in the small periods of rest during sleepless nights, instead of entering a colourful fantasy world, there is only darkness and blackness. Is that a more truthful reality?

\---

Three days later and I still feel pretty bad about not taking Ms Mills up on the offer. The figure she showed me has so many zeros I thought she just added on a couple more at the end as her interpretations of kisses on greetings cards. At the time it seemed the obvious thing to say no too. I have two jobs on the back burner already - a cheater and a missing spouse - and baby sitting has never been a particular interest of mine. They call a spouse a ball and chain, but children are being tied to a goddamn tree. You’re stuck with them for years and all they do is take. Then again, I haven’t met anyone lately who’s handing out hand outs. So maybe we’re all just a bunch of freeloaders.

After consulting with my reckless, but not entirely useless, partner, Killian “Hook” Jones, I’m feeling a little irresolute re: the despairing baby mama case. Hook’s a good friend. We’ve _comforted_ each other in _many_ _ways_ over the years but his best quality, by a long shot, is his completely obliviousness to the world. Present him with a problem and he will, without fail, find the most toxic and masculine way to confront the issue. If you haven’t heard the phrase _it’s good to hang around a few dicks to understand the mystique of hyper masculinity_ then I’m copyrighting it. It will shortly be followed up by a study into _The Narcissistic Delusion of K.H Jones._

In short, if I feel I’m letting my tendency for uncaringness take hold I used Killian as the lowest benchmark of moral ambiguity. Here’s a brief play by play of recounting my encounter with the elusive Ms Mills to my good buddy  _ Jonesy _ :

\---

**[E, SWAN. OUTGOING CALL TRANSCRIPT. 3.24PM. TUESDAY.]**

 

SWAN:  **“Listen, Kill, just met up with that Mills woman.”**

 

JONES:  _ “Alright, are we takin’ the job?” _

 

SWAN:  **“It’s just what I figured, skittish mom, tetchy son. Chuck the file, I’m gonna head uptown to see Gold then head on to over so, you goddamn better have cleaned up the office by then.”**

 

JONES:  _ “Maybe it’s thee who’s the tetchy one, goldilocks. Maybe get a cosmo while you’re puttin’ on the Ritz with ol’ Goldie.” _

 

SWAN:  **“You’re a** [REDACTED] **, Jones.”**

 

JONES:  _ “True, true. Can’t disagree there... Was she smokin’ beauty?” _

 

SWAN:  **“What? Who?”**

 

JONES:  _ “The baby mama. The jitterin’ jill.” _

 

SWAN:  **“Stop looking up nineteen-thirties slang while you’re at work, Kill, for the love of god. And yes, she happened to be attractive but I don’t see how that-”**

 

JONES:  _ “Oh, it doesn’t I was just curious.” _

 

_ [ pregnant pause ] _

 

SWAN:  **“...Are you jacking off** **_right now?_ ** **”**

 

JONES:  _ “It’s two in the afternoon, Swan, you know that’s what I take my afternoon smoke break-” _

 

SWAN:  **“Actually, I did not know. Gross.** [REDACTED] **, Killian, just… don’t ever do that when you’re on the phone to me again, alright?”**

 

JONES:  _ “Sure thing, boss. Message heard loud and clear. No jacking while we’re yapping. And always wash your _ [REDACTED] after. _ ” _

 

SWAN:  **“Jesus** [REDACTED]  **Christ, Hook. Make sure you clean up your... mess, before I get back. Or** **_no more smoke breaks_ ** **.”**

 

JONES:  _ “I’ve changed my mind. You’re definitely the skittish baby mama.” _

 

SWAN:  **“Yeah, well jacking doesn’t even rhyme with yapping, you** [REDACTED] **”**

  
  


**[ END OF TRANSCRIPT ]**

\---

As you can see, viewing Ms Mills case through the lowest scope of human sentience, it became apparent to me that just maybe I had been a little too quick to judge. After all, I possess the one quality Killian Jones never will: empathy. I think it over as a swirl my last finger of whiskey for the night in the greasy tumblers  _ Granny’s  _ prefers to grace their clientele with. That evening, I decided to “ease my troubles” there. 

My roommate (the one who forced me into buying that tacky lunchbox), works here. Her name is Ruby “Red” Lukas, and although she may have a heart of gold, I can say for sure her bite is much worse than her bark. Draining my glass, I slide it over to her down the old oak bar. It glistens with water, syrup and spirits under the dull bar lights.

“She does seem like a bitch, that’s for sure. Question is, do you  _ want _ to help her?” She prompts, catching the glass and dunking it in the sink behind her. It’s way past close, but the bar is on my way home from the office. Picking up Red seems like a smart idea for a late night stroll in this city. Although I don’t really know who would be protecting who.

 

“Yes? No? I don’t know… She’s a nice woman, she’s just…”

 

“Completely terrifying?” She’s smirking contemptuously. Ruby is another friend who’s, em, helped me out a lot over the years.

 

“No.” I deny, unconvincingly, “Is that bad? I’m supposedly meant to have the luxury of  _ choosing _ my cases, and she  _ is _ a total bitch.”

 

“Not at all, but we  _ both _ know your  _ topos _ regarding  _ the unruly woman _ .” 

This makes me wheeze. A couple weeks back, Red started dating Isabella Lace, local book worm and buzz kill extraordinaire. I’m not saying that she’s a prude or anything but really, no one is more allergic to commitment than Ruby, and Izzy here has her hosting Sunday Brunches and has installed an new interest in veganism. Ruby is a punk, for Christ’s sake. A punk that owns a Steakhouse Saloon. If the lip piercing and red highlights didn’t sell it, the homage to the Smiths on the wall behind that bar did completely. But as always, if she’s happy, I’m happy.

“You read too much.” I mutter with playful resignation.

 

She looks up from the sink. No wonder Isabella’s head over heels for her. Her kind eyes gleam with a hint of subtle corruption. Next thing I know, there’s a towel in my face.

“You don’t read enough. If you’re gonna sit there and mock me, at least help me clean up.”

 

Reluctantly, I do so. We fall silent for a while. Ruby passes me a bottle of  _ Ultra-Spray-Away _ , and I get to work. A solid pattern of scrub, scrub, spray usually does the trick. This is not my first rodeo. After a while, Ruby speaks.

“You’re going to help her, aren’t you?” 

 

I sigh, “I have to don’t I? Plus, Kill’s getting nowhere with the Nolan’s and I need to actually pay the rent this month.”

 

I’m beginning to use the bar scrubbing to focus my frustration. The surface squeaks in protest. Ruby cross from the sink to rest her hand over mine. “Don’t worry about that, Em. You know Granny has that covered.”

 

“But even with that. If I can’t see through a hot prissy bitch to a concern mother, then maybe I’m not doing my job right.” 

 

“You could just be spending too much time with Killian Jones. His hegemonic masculinity is probably affecting your judgment.” Ruby offers, throwing the clothes and spray in a cupboard and grabbing her keys.  I take my queue and slide on my jacket and backpack (they're cool, alright).

 

“ _ You _ have been spending too much time with  _ Belle _ . Her radical left-wing feminism is seriously affecting yours.” I smirk.

 

Ruby shoves me out the door, bolting it behind me, “I’ll see you round the back. Try not to get stabbed while I’m gone.”

 

“Same goes for you, Red. Don’t trip and stab yourself.”

 

She gives me the finger. Which is fair, I’m not the more charming when I’ve been drinking. I make my way round to the back of the bar, taking out my phone and compose a less than professional text.

\---

**MaxiMillSimoleons**

 

_ I’ll take your dumb case. _

_ **E, SWAN. 03.34AM.** _

 

_ I sincerely hope you level of professionalism will not correlate with the results I expect. Meet me at my office at 9AM. The address is 104 Regal Avenue, ask for Regina at the front desk. Do not be late. _

_ **R, MILLS. 5.45AM** _

...

You see the distance between reality and vision is a lot closer than people may expect. If you try your hardest to be the person you want to be then you have nothing to complain about. Regardless of dreamless sleep, disgusting men or good friends. Doing what make me feel like a better person is how I got into the damn business. So you better bet I'm gonna baby sit the the fucking hell outta that woman's kid.

...

_ Furthermore, please wear a clean shirt. We are conducting business after all. _

**R, MILLS. 5:50AM.**

**...**

_Ugh, bitch._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> critiques wanted and appreciated
> 
> XOXO a known gay

**Author's Note:**

> first time i've actually posted something i've written. pls gimme tips and PRAISE
> 
> pls
> 
> love y'all
> 
> XOXO a known gay


End file.
